Rain pattered relentlessly against the Mystery Shack's roof, the large and sudden storm clouds showing no mercy. Water gurgled through the leaf-cluttered gutters, dripping down and creating large puddles of mud in the lawn Stan never bothered to care for. Gompers bleated his annoyance, but no one within the Shack was awake to hear him.

Stan snored away in his chair in the living room, the TV playing reruns of the Duchess Approves, casting a multitude of soft light over his slumbering form. Up in the attic, the twins were each snuggled under a blanket, the rain and imminent leaks hardly fazing them in their dreams. The atmosphere almost passed as peaceful, no worries or problems to care for, no police to fret about now that Stan had hung a fake "On Vacation" sign on the door.

Meanwhile, down in the basement, the rain was barely heard through the deepest floor, where Ford slept fitfully atop his desk. His paperwork and a single journal acted as a makeshift pillow, and he crossed his arms over as a cushion to lay his head. The occasional rumbling snore escaped him, as he tossed and turned his head every so often.

But, within a few seconds, the alarm clock beside him rang out inches from his ear. Ford jerked awake with a startled yell, gazing around the room with a hand on his gun before recognizing the sanctuary of the basement. With a weary sigh, he scrubbed at an eye underneath his lenses and slapped the alarm clock quiet. Its shrilly call ceased.

Everyone else was warm and comfortable within their beds, but Ford wasn't. He had a job to do.

He blinked away the lingering sleepiness, his usual insomnia kicking in as he looked down at the papers gathered beneath him. He shifted a few, sorting them into the right piles before yawning and flipping his journal to the right page.

He had been within the basement since they reached the Shack, poring over his pages and searching for a way to create some type of cure for Mabel's predicament. The girl twin had complained about the pain in her arm, shedding a few tears despite Dipper's frantic attempts to cheer her. He'd even granted permission to paint his nails however she wanted, with all the sparkles and glitter she could grab, and Stan had even chimed in his permission as well, but it hadn't really helped. She had uncharacteristically denied, her right arm useless and her left arm not as intricate with painting, and she stated she saw no use.

Stan had eventually handed over two of the last painkillers he could find in the back of the medicine cabinet before she left for bed, which meant he had to go out directly in the morning for more. The rain, however, would slow him down, and Mabel had seemed to sense that when she first heard the droplets pinging against the roof, her usual exclamation of "rain!" absent.

Ford would've been glad to fork over the flower he and Dipper had discovered in the woods only the day prior. Unfortunately, he'd overlooked the important fact of the dose. He scrawled it in his book now, but the more extreme the injury, the more doses of the tea he'd created with that flower were needed. Dipper had drank every drop of the concoction Ford had whipped up, all flowers gone from his small satchel, since the child had, well, had a near-death experience. Ford still had checked Dipper's chest that night to ensure no water was still in his lungs.

So the magical healing flowers were a no-go. Mabel was stuck with her injury like it or not, and Ford was hellbent on finding something that'd ease her pain after hearing her cry during dinner. There were many factors, such as needing help with every little thing, but the pain itself seemed to be bothering her most.

"There's got to be something..." Ford muttered under his breath, gnawing on the end of a pen as he flipped through pages in the journal. Of course, it was useless, he'd memorized the thing page to page, and the few things that probably could speed Mabel's healing were impossible to get to at this time of year. The pen snapped during one of Ford's strong bites, and the author gagged as it spilt ink all over his chin.

He wiped at his mouth somberly, slamming the book closed. Even those flowers he and Dipper had discovered were gone by now. He'd picked all of the patch, and finding another small growth would be a pain. Ford didn't want to exactly scour the forest looking for it either...not with the rain, and not when Stan was already cross with his earlier decisions.

Ford slipped the journal back on its shelf, pushing his chair back and stretching his limbs. The last option he could take was to use those painkillers Stan would buy tomorrow and enhance them enough to reach prescription-status. So long as it helped ebb away Mabel's pain. The young girl didn't deserve it, at all. Dipper was more crabby and weary with his sister's unhappiness too. Stan had sent the boy up early without dessert when Dipper snapped at him impudently, and that only made Mabel cry more for what she regarded as a cruel punishment because "everyone deserves dessert!".

The whole family would be unhappy if Mabel wasn't back to her cheery self soon. Ford himself missed the young girl running about the house, glitterfying his things, making something topped with jars of sprinkles and a dash of edible glitter Dipper had bought for her for dessert. But he could feel the fatigue building up in his aged limbs, and it was throwing off his focus.

It was then when he began to crave the lukewarm bitterness of coffee, something to act as a refresher and help him think. Yes...he could worry about the situation ten minutes from now. He just needed something to land him back on track.

Within a minute or two, he burst into the living room, still rubbing an eye and trying to stifle a yawn. Stan was sprawled on his chair, open-mouthed and practically rattling the room with heavy snores. Ford sleepily wandered to the TV and clicked it off, plunging the pair into semi-darkness aside from the light from the fish tank.

The elder twin reached down to grab the afghan crumpled to the floor. He gave it a shake before smoothing it over his brother's slumbering form, and then headed to the kitchen.

The light flickered on after a few tries, and Ford fell into his routine of making his pot of coffee, letting his mind wander to other things. His hands worked deftly, the beverage made in almost no time at all with the machine Ford had spruced up to make his much-needed brew in little time. Stan often complained Ford would be the reason machines took over the Earth one day, but Ford took his inventions with pride and convenience.

He took a few swallows from the mug by habit, nearly choking as the warmth nearly burnt his tongue. The drink was black and strong, the way he took it when he felt he needed the boost itself rather than something to perk him up in the morning. Of course, it took multiple cups to give him even a smidgen of energy. Drinking coffee had been a thing since college, and drinking coffee-like drinks had been a thing during his time in the portal. He was going to be up in the kitchen for a while.

It didn't bother him much. He felt almost relieved, happy to take a break from constant failure after failure of finding a solution to the problem. He swirled the drink in his cup, watching the steam rise from the liquid before turning to watch the rain pattering against the glass of the windowpane.

Yes, it was far more peaceful in the house, and he felt his prior frustration slowly fading. Stan had even turned on the heater; a very rare occurence. He took another sip of the now lukewarm beverage, before vaguely wondering how the children were doing. Maybe it'd help to peek in on them. He could use the excuse of checking in on Mabel.

He refilled his mug before silently creeping up the steps, passing his sleeping twin now curled up in the blanket. His boots thudded softly against the wooden stairs,paired with the occasional creak, and Ford quickly grasped hold of his sneaky tendencies as he approached the twins' room. He hardly ever checked on the children, so his knowledge on whether or not they were heavy sleepers wasn't exact, but the habit had become more and more frequent.

The door opened with a hesitant creak, and he poked his head into the darkened room. The rain was more prominent up in the attic, pattering against the roof with a more frequent force. Small droplets splattered in pots and bowls spread throughout the floor, the children foreseeing the leaks, and it didn't seem to bother them any. Shafts of very faint moonlight peeked through the window, and Ford had to blink to adjust to the darkness.

Dipper hung half-on, half-off his bed, sporting his usual attire of a t-shirt and shorts, his hand nearly brushing the wooden floor. His blanket was crumpled near his feet in a forgotten heap, and his mouth was wide open as small snores rose from his direction in bursts. Waddles was curled under his other arm, sleeping soundly alongside him.

...which was odd. Usually, the pig remained devoted to being near Mabel.

Ford turned his attention to Mabel's bed, and was startled to see only a bundle of fabric where she sat, and the vague noise of sobbing now rising above the noise of rain.

The author quietly walked in her direction, mindful of Dipper, and stepped over a pot in his path. Mabel was nothing but a small ball, hiding within her sweater, which only stretched to an impossible degree with her bulky cast. The ball quivered and twitched as she sniffed and sobbed, a noise Ford was becoming used to hearing already. Not that he liked hearing it.

Ford felt his heart ache for the girl, wishing he hadn't needed to see her like this. But, he found it a slight blessing he'd found her instead. Stan would've felt ultimately more guilty in seeing her in this state, being the unintentional cause, and Ford noticed his twin had been more reserved during the night, watching his soap operas and eating ice cream...two pints rather than his usual one.

Slowly, Ford lowered himself and sat on the child's bed. Mabel's mattress lifted under his weight, and her hiccups ceased, her form freezing in confusion. Before he could scare her, Ford quickly whispered out a concerned "Mabel?"

A beat of silence. He could see his niece's expression, but after a second, she seemed to recognize the voice. "...Mabel's not here. She's in Sweatertown."

"Ah." Ford shifted, lifting a leg onto the bed and directly facing her. "May I receive an invitation?"

Another pause. His usually talkative niece was silent. "...uh-uh."

"Oh." Ford looked down at his mug, taking a small sip of the drink he didn't really want anymore.

"...I'm leaving anyway."

He looked up from his coffee as Mabel slowly withdrew from her sweater sanctaury. Her head popped out, hair messy and sticking out in odd places, her headband missing. Tear tracks moved down her cheeks, sloping downwards towards her chin. She struggled to remove her sweater, the garment having been slipped over her floppy disk nightgown, and a cry of despair escaped her as her cast got stuck.

Ford set his mug down on the floor, scooting forward to help her out. It didn't seem to help her mood any, and he felt alarmed when she began to cry harder.

"Mabel, is something wrong?" He questioned uneasily, her eyes shutting closed as she gave another shuddering sob. He could barely see much of her other than her face, illuminated by whatever light streamed through the window. But he could catch the vague shadows underneath her, her casted arm clasped close to her body. "...are you in serious pain? Because if you are, I need to bring you down for closer inspection, I might've done something wrong."

"N-no." Mabel shook her head quickly, almost desperately. "No, s-s'not your f-fault! It's m-mine!"

Ford watched her for a few seconds before moving closer, shoving her discarded bedspread out of the way. He was seated only inches away from her, his form lurking over her. She looked utterly helpless, and to be quite honest, it scared the older man. "I don't understand, Mabel. It's not your fault your arm is broken."

"Y-yuh-huh!" Mabel shot back, tears sliding down from her lashes, and she sniffed, ending it with a shuddering cough. "I f-fell...I fell and slowed Grunkle S-Stan, and then I ended the trip because I-I'm clumsy."

"Don't blame yourself for something Stan did," Ford stated sternly, stooping down to look into her eyes. "It's not your fa...Mabel, look at me."

Mabel responded with a pained noise, turning her head away and squeezing her eyes shut. She gave a small hiss, rubbing at her arm and her shoulders rising to her ears as she tried to curl up even further. "Don't blame G-Grunkle Stan. It's not his fault!"

"Alright." Ford paused, sparing a glance towards his nephew. Dipper shifted in his covers, only emitting a sleepy sigh before turning his back to the pair, Waddles clutched in his arms. The author turned his attention back to his sniveling niece, who refused to raise her head upon feeling his gaze on her. "...then if it's not your fault or Stan's fault, whose is it?"

Mabel seemed to freeze at the inquiry, her sniffles slowing as she seemed to contemplate the question.

"...is it my fault?" Ford asked uneasily, searching her face for any indication of an answer. "Dipper's? Should we have paid more attention to you or Stan?"

His question was instantly met with wide eyes and a shocked expression as Mabel finally looked up at him, catching his concerned expression. "NO! I mean...n-no. Never in a million years would I blame you or D-Dipper!"

"Alright..." Ford reached forward, wrapping an arm around her uninjured side and pulling her into his lap, her cast untouched. She sniffed pitifully, blinking up at him as he shifted a bit on the mattress and sighed. "Alright, so...if it's not your fault, or Stan's fault, or my fault, or Dipper's fault...what would you call that?"

Mabel rubbed a hand across her face, wishing she had a tissue on hand. "...a f-freak accident?"

"Now that sounds much better," Ford stated, brushing a hand down her hair and struggling to fix the tangled areas, moving strands out of her face. "Or you could blame the cops as well. Or the ground even. But never yourself. And despite Stan having been...involved in some way, I wouldn't...directly blame him either."

Mabel hummed in response, laying her head on her Grunkle's shoulder. The fabric of his sweater was soft and warm, and his coat still held the distinct smell of earth, and maybe cheap cologne. Despite the fact she had wanted to only wallow in her shame alone, she was kinda glad Ford had arrived. "...you're not mad at Stan, are you?"

"No, I'm not. He's already stated he's not mad at me anymore, so we truced." Ford lifted a handkerchief from within his coat in the multitude of secret pockets he kept, handing it to his niece, who was starting to smile at his reply. "Were you worried about that too? Us being mad at each other?"

"K-kinda." Mabel wiped the tears from her eyes, blowing her nose a bit before sheepishly glancing at Ford, who only dismissively shrugged. "...you're not supposed to be mad at each other. When Dipper and I get mad at each other, it's just a disaster. I was...kinda worried falling and breaking my arm made the tension even more cuckoo crazy."

Ford bent down to retrieve his cup, taking a swig of the coffee before nestling Mabel further in his arm. "If Stan and I are mad at each other, you don't ever need to worry about it, dear. Eventually, we'll make up, and if we don't within a week, feel free to intervene with...what was it you called? Attack glitter?"

"Oh, I have a whole stash of that!" Mabel chirped, her frown pulling up into a cheerful smile. The tears vanished, and she rubbed at the stains on her cheek. "I'll make a note to keep some for those incidents. I'll tell Dipper too! Maybe he'll go and buy some more...I think you'd look very nice in aqua glitter, Grunkle Ford!"

Ford nodded and quickly took another sip of coffee. He loved his niece dearly, and her creative spontaneous ways, but glitter was the one thing he wished to avoid. Mainly because it took three washes to remove it from his clothes. It interfered with camouflage during research. "...feeling better?"

Mabel paused, shifting her cast a bit and seeming to think before giving a confident nod. "A lot. Thanks, Grunkle Ford."

"I'll surely have the full solution to your problem come tomorrow morning," Ford assured as he swirled the coffee in his cup. Mabel eyed it curiously, raising her head a bit as if wanting to peer inside it. "...what'd you bring?"

"Coffee. I wanted to delve some more in research for the night."

"Great Uncle Ford, Stan already told us we needed to make sure you sleep!" Mabel said, taking the mug from his hand. "He really told us to kick you out if we woke up and saw you awake in the middle of the night, but your room's really far. You can sleep here with me and Dipper!"

Ford struggled to argue, reaching for his coffee. "Mabel, dear, I don't-"

"Oh! And Waddles!"

At the sound of his name, the pig raised his head, and slipped out of Dipper's grip. He hopped to the floor and as Mabel set Ford's mug on the ground, instantly attacked the beverage, slurping up the contents of the drink. Ford couldn't resist making a face as the pig raised its head, mug stuck to its snout, before clopping away. "...well, I suppose I have no choice then, do I?"

"Nope!" Mabel grinned and snuggled closer to him. Dipper suddenly shifted in his bed, turning over and blinking sleepily across the room, awakened by Waddle's rapid exit. "...Great Uncle Ford? Mabel? W-wha's goin' on?"

"...Stan will kill me if he finds out I kept you two up." Ford patted Mabel's back, and she reluctantly climbed back to her pillow. He shook out her comforter, laying it across her, and tucking her in with her cast the only thing out of the covers. Both pairs of wide brown eyes stared up at the author, Dipper now wide awake as he tried to figure out why his idol had visited.

Ford pulled the chair from the nearby desk, sitting between the two beds and clasping his hands between his knees, slightly leaning forward. "Okay. A bedtime story, then it's back to sleep for both of you."

"Mmm...I'm not tired," Dipper argued through a yawn. "I can help you, Great Uncle Ford. With...whatever it is you're awake for."

"No." Ford shot back, giving his nephew a pointed look before glancing back at his niece. "Besides, I was here for your sister, and her pain was already taken care of. Now..."

"Can you tell us about one of your big research projects?" Dipper asked excitedly, beaming from his spot in bed. "L-like...Like..."

"Ever met the Summerween Trickster?" Mabel suggested, burrowing into her covers and peering up happily as Dipper instantly agreed. "Yeah! That ol' guy. The one who was made of old candy..."

"You've met him?" Ford raised an eyebrow before straightening up. "He's actually quite fascinating! I never managed to document him, though...let's see, it was around the third summer I was living in Gravity Falls, my house was fully built and furnished. I already knew about Summerween, just never cared to participate, but that changed when a received a sudden visitor that night..."

And the author continued on, relaying his tale with elaborate detail and every little thing he could remember, from the fear and fascination he felt, from the certain types of candies he was forced to collect, to the strange looks he got as the local researching hermit dressed in a last-minute costume trick-or-treating for candy. His voice boomed over the rain, carrying itself throughout the attic, the perfect ambience for the twins. Mabel, despite her evident struggling, fell asleep first. Dipper closely followed.

Ford finished his tale once he realized both were sleeping soundly. Waddles returned and laid at his feet, the coffee cup dropping and rolling on the floor. Ford picked it back up, turning it over and finding not even one drop was left. He wasn't too fond on getting a refill either. He discarded it on the desk behind him before stooping down to pet the pig, the children's soft breathing coupled with the rain, the sound of drip-drip-drip as the leaks steadily dropped into the containers that had been carefully placed, the creaks and squeaks of the old Shack, Gompers bleating outside as he searched for cover, making up all of the background noise. It wasn't long before he himself felt sleepy.

The next morning, the rain had gone, clouds beginning to disperse. Stan went up to check on the twins before breakfast, and was surprised to find both children comfortably in bed, smiles on their faces, and his very own twin curled up on the floor with a pig in his arms.

"...oi, Poindexter."